


Whose division is it then?

by holmo_sexual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuties, First Kiss, Fluffy, M/M, i' too lazy to write more, maybe if you nag me, no smut i'm sorry, not my division
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 09:47:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmo_sexual/pseuds/holmo_sexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock inadvertently spurs an alliance between Mycroft and Lestrade, who become more than friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose division is it then?

**Author's Note:**

> Don't hate me but I just rattled this off in the way that I do with fluff. Here's hoping you allow this to convince you to ship Mystrade, clearly this ship is somewhat dear to me. can you imagine mycoft absentmindedly calling lestrade dear? ahhh. they're so cute.

  
“For goodness’ sakes, don’t you idiots _think?_ How on earth would the woman’s hand fit in that space? It had to be the monkey! Yes, the monkey. Don’t give me that look John, obviously that was a monkey, what kind of dog sheds hair with that coarseness? And on the shoulders? What is it like in you funny little brains? It must be so _dull!”_

Sherlock strode out of the office, pausing only to prop the door open in a melodramatic fashion, for John. How Sherlock managed to hold a door open with such viciousness was beyond anyone unfortunate to be in the tense room. John meekly apologised to Mycroft and Lestrade, before ducking under Sherlock’s outstretched arm and striding off, already chastising Sherlock. The door swung shut with a quiet thud, leaving behind a mildly amused and thoroughly exasperated Lestrade, an irate Mycroft and a ringing silence.

“Well” Mycroft exhaled with trepidation, dreading taking the unfamiliar stance of apologising, especially on his brother’s behalf. But really, Mycroft thought, he couldn’t afford dissolution in relations (even further) between Sherlock and The Yard, lest his troublesome younger brother return to his previous entertainment of recreational drug use.

Upon seeing Mycroft’s extremely awkward expression, somehow a tight-lipped smile torn between amusement and anxiety and frustration and apology, Lestrade impulsively chose to bypass the incoming apology with an imperious wave of the hand. Mycroft grinned.

“Really, Sherlock throws tantrums like that all the time. Sorry he didn’t introduce us… are you a friend of John’s?” Lestrade inquired with a touch of morbid curiosity. It would be just like Greg to be attracted to a taken man, especially after the whole drama with the divorce. He frowned.

Mycroft smiled a tight lipped smile and quirked an eyebrow. “Has my dear younger brother really not told the famous Lestrade anything about me?”

Lestrade blushed at the recognition of his relationship with Sherlock. It was not often that the man himself acknowledged it, but apparently he had gained enough merit to be a talking point of the “Consulting Detective”.

Mycroft settled himself into the uncomfortable government supply chair across the desk from Greg, just as his companion managed to recover from his shyness (he really had to learn to take a compliment, however small) and splutter “Greg. It’s Greg, if that’s okay with you, Mr Holmes, I presume. It seems you already know something of a small biography of me, so you’d better tell me something about you.”

Mycroft grinned, and began to talk, with more flourish than he had in years.  
……………….

  
ONE MONTH LATER  
Mycroft glanced over the top of his newspaper- a low brow tabloid, more like a magazine than anything else, one he read as a shameful indulgence, a break from the usual affairs of the British government-to peek covertly at Greg, his friend, he supposed dubiously, although he was unfamiliar with the idea. Mycroft blushed delicately at the thought and hid behind the newspaper once more. He had been dwelling on their relationship far too much in his opinion, and to Mycroft’s undeniable horror, he could not ignore the fact that he was beginning to have _feelings_ for the man. Mycroft scowled, flipping a page a little violently, and subsequently creating a loud tear, which drove Greg from his reverie.

Lestrade, too, had been pondering the intricacies of his and Mycroft’s relationship. What had begun as a convenient partnership in order to better handle Sherlock; in Mycroft’s case gathering more personal information the CCTV and the bugs around 221B were unable to pick up, and in Lestrade’s, gaining emotional leverage over Sherlock in the form of childhood stories, which were doled out when Mycroft felt guilty for his brother’s inappropriate behaviour- which was frequent- and used unsparingly to gain Sherlock’s cooperation for thirty seconds or so here and there. This relationship, however had quickly transgressed into a companionable friendship, both parties undemanding yet constant friends, who frequented restaurants and coffee shops in order to swap information.

However Greg had realised it might be a bit more than just friendship when Mycroft himself would firstly come in the car to the yard before their dates, no, _no_ , their meals, and later when Mycroft had come all the way up to Lestrade’s office to retrieve him, and lingered at the end of their meetings, unwilling to go. The last straw had been last week, when Greg had unlocked his office door in the morning to find a comfortable- and very handsome- armchair casually resting in the corner of the room. His old, creaky, government issue visitor's chair was nowhere to be found. Though there had been no note, the gift? addition? had clearly been from Mycroft. Lestrade had cowardly ignored it all week. Even today, when after another squabble between Sherlock, Mycroft, John and himself had culminated in a some very awkward suggestions of a relationship from Sherlock, he had refused to address the issue of the offending chair. Mycroft had even come prepared for a post-Sherlock morning tea, his assistant bringing in a box of cupcakes and doughnuts and lemon tarts and éclairs and a steaming pot of tea. Feet propped up on the desk and tie abandoned, Lestrade had happily hopped into the meal, relaxing and considering tactics for the conversation. Mycroft, as usual, beat him to it.

“Oho, Greg, here’s an article for you; ‘10 Ways To Get The Girl’. Sounds terribly misogynistic, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and you haven’t dated in all the time I’ve known you! I should think this article should help you- ah what is it? ‘Get the proverbial girl’”

Lestrade smirked, lowering the doughnut from his mouth.

“Not my division”

….  
Mycroft’s jaw dropped, his joking façade shattering in an instant.

“What did you say?” he stuttered. Lestrade’s smirk only grew more pronounced.

“There was nothing in your file about being gay! For heavens’ sakes you had a wife!”

The smile widened into a grin. Mycroft honestly, swear to Elizabeth the Second, felt his heart stutter. His favourite thing in the world, not even second to Mrs Hudson’s orange and poppy seed cake, was how he felt when he made Lestrade smile. In a sudden rush of bravery, Mycroft rose form the armchair, newspaper floating aimlessly to the floor, and strode to the desk between them. Lestrade frowned and dropped his legs from the table, unable to read Mycroft’s expression.

The silence, and the tension within it, was almost palpable, as Mycroft stood before the desk, looking down at Lestrade.

“Not my division, either” Mycroft exhaled huskily, a serious expression flickering across his face, a kind of determination that only arose in world crises, before it was replaced by his trademark quirk of the mouth, that little smile that Greg just wanted to kiss right off his face. And he did just that.

Lestrade lurched forward and forcefully grabbed the lapels of Mycroft’s suit, pulling him down. A moment’s hesitation- Lestrade paused long enough for Mycroft to give a tiny huff and an even smaller, desperate nod- and their lips met. Hot and urgent at first, Greg peppered Mycroft’s mouth with kisses, growing more and more lingering, urgent. Mycroft’s hands mindlessly caressed Greg, his left hand running up the back of his neck and into his silver hair, his right coming to a rest on his chest, right above Greg’s bounding heart. Lestrade’s breath hitched at the contact, and the kiss deepened, his lips parting and tongue surging forward to caress Mycroft’s, to run its tip underneath his companions tongue, over it, feel the expanse of the roof of Mycroft’s eager mouth and the smooth backs of his teeth. Mycroft keened softly and permitted his tongue to reciprocate, his hands growing bold and roaming unabashedly over the expanse of Greg’s lightly muscled body. Greg grinned against Mycroft’s lips, and the kisses softened, both ben in dire need of uninterrupted air, and favouring one another with soft-lipped kisses, lingering and sweet, gentle caresses of the tongue. Finally the two broke apart, Lestrade coming off completely dishevelled, Mycroft miraculously tidy as usual. Greg sighed contentedly and resumed his seat.

Mycroft’s face went completely, frighteningly blank. “Well Greg, I think I’ll have to test your claims.”

With a burst of laughter, Greg doubled over onto the desk, head narrowly missing a cupcake, Mycroft grinned, indulging in a squeaking giggle. Upon hearing this, Greg glanced up, and snorted in laughter, gasping for air as his eyes began to stream.

Greg choked between guffaws, clutching at his stomach. “I… Love you…You… Bloody….IDIOT!”

The two men grinned, and Mycroft sank down into a fluffy, happy heap on the floor.

He never wanted to get up.


End file.
